


Campfire Tales of a Khajiit Dovahkiin

by Larathia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larathia/pseuds/Larathia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some very weird things can happen, playing Skyrim, that aren't bugs in any way. Just unusual or at least peculiar combinations of code working the way it should. When these happen to my Khajiit Dragonborn, I try to imagine how it would sound if she were going to tell the story to anyone else.</p>
<p>That's where this comes from. Aside from the introduction, be assured I'm avoiding the standard quests - rather this will be stories of world interactions that may happen as a result of PC choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ri'saad watched the campfire as the sun went down, listening with one flicking ear to the idle chatter of his caravan-mates. Nothing new, really. Comments on the cold weather, on the harshness of the furless Nords in not letting Khajiit into their cities, on the profitability of camping in this hold rather than that hold. Whiterun had one of the more hospitable campsites, and a pleasant balance between curious traders and enterprising criminals. And it wasn't as cold as may of the other campsites.

He knew every voice, the habits of every member of his group, quite by heart after so many months trekking all over the province with them. So when another soft footfall came - too soft to be accidental, must be a thief or an assassin - Ri'saad opened his eyes and calmly said, "Khajiit welcomes you."

"Khajiit is welcomed," purred an answering voice, somewhat to his surprise. There were almost _no_ Khajiit in Skyrim that he himself had not funded. The locals had made fairly sure of that. She emerged from the shadows clad in the soft leathers of the Thieves' Guild, and Ri'saad relaxed somewhat. An assassin might taunt before the kill, but the thieves rarely risked their income by doing so. "May this one share the comfort of your fire, perhaps in exhange for a tale or two?"

Ri'saad unshipped a longstem pipe and nodded toward the fire. "Sister Khajiit is always a welcome sight in these cold lands. Food we will share at a discount, for a good tale." 

The newcomer's jaw dropped in a fanged grin, and she produced a handful of septims. "Outsiders think us smugglers and thieves," she said.

Ri'saad accepted the coins with an answering grin. Among their own, in a territory as harsh as this one to their kind, they were disinclined to casual swindling. He gestured again to the fire. "This one is most interested in your tales, sister. Come, there is elk stew."

The newcomer accepted a big bowl happily; the roads were winding and long and food was always better when you didn't have to cook it yourself. The rest of the caravan noted her presence, and came one by one to join her by the fire, getting their own shares of the stew. Most were Khajiit. There was an Orc as well, but he clearly considered himself hired help and stayed to the perimeter.

"You heard the voices, shouting words from the mountaintops?" she asked, as she finished her supper.

"It is said that the voices were heard the length and breadth of Skyrim," said Atahbah. 

The newcomer tapped her chest with a furry forefinger. "This one, they called. The graybeards were summoning."

Insofar as Khajiit faces could register incredulity, all of them did. "You did offer tales," said Ri'saad. "But that is a very large claim to make."

The newcomer bowed her head briefly. "And so it is. Will a demonstration suffice? Something you do not value."

Khayla pointed a claw toward a few broken pots that they had discovered when making camp, and cast aside. "Those will do."

The newcomer set aside her empty bowl, got to her feet, faced the pots, and ...

It wasn't exactly shouting, or yelling. Rather, the syllable she uttered seemed to vibrate into the very bones without pausing much at the ears. 

_Fus!_

It certainly had an effect on the pots, sending them scattering. She turned back to Ri'saad, jaw dropped in a grin. "There are others, not so gentle. Words that shake mountains."

"And this, they teach you?" asked Ri'saad. "Nords do not let us into their cities, but this they will give?"

The newcomer tapped her chest again. " _Dovahkiin_ ," she said. "Anyone can learn it who wishes to spend a few years in the cold up a mountain. But I do not have to. So they teach me, so I do not shake their cities down."

Ri'saad sneezed at that. He was fairly sure that wasn't the reason these greybeards had chosen to make such a monumental exception. "Then why do you not sleep in the stone houses, behind the walls? Will the guards still not let you pass?"

"They let me pass," she said. "But they are not Khajiit. The guild, they are also not Khajiit."

Ri'saad supposed he could understand that. Being told his hide would make a fine rug, people demanding what he was up to as if he'd broken into the tuna...it could be wearying. 

"Ah yes," said the newcomer. "The guild. They bring you an offer, and a gift." She fished in a bag, producing a satchel of moon sugar. "To renew old ties."

Ri'saad inhaled the scent happily. "Accepted," he said. "The Thieves' Guild works well with us when it is doing well." He flicked an ear. "And this one has heard it _is_ doing better, again."

"Another tale," grinned the newcomer. "For the welcome of fire and food - at a discount, of course - this one will most happily share tales whenever our shadows cross."

"It is a most welcome bargain," nodded Ri'saad.


	2. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a real 'random world interaction'. This chapter happened after one afternoon involved me running into this battle no less than four times. It started feeling like more of a war than the Civil War, at that point.

The snows blew thick and freezing across the wastes near Dawnstar, the trees barely diverting any of the harsh winds. Ahkari was glad they'd made camp for the night; the campfire's heat was welcome, even if its light seemed in constant danger of being blown out by the snow.

Small wonder, in this weather, that a thief like the Dovahkiin could prowl right past Dro'marash and Kharjo to bow before the leader. "This one offers tales, and goods, in exchange for the warmth of your fire and company," purred the low Khajiit voice.

Ahkari had heard about this one. The Dovahkiin the Nords had so many tales of was a Khajiit woman, and a thief. _How it must gall them,_ she mused, more than a little amused. Hard not to be, when the so-proud Nords wouldn't even let them into their cities, to huddle inside the walls. She incluned her head graciously. "Word has reached us of you," she said. "And Ri'saad spoke well of your tales. Sit. There is venison stew, very hot. We will do business in the morning, and share tales tonight."

The Dovahkiin nodded her furry head, just visible inside the leather thief's hood, and took her place by the fire. Dro'marash looked disgruntled that she'd managed to slip past him, but Kharjo seemed more than a little amused - as one might be at a kitten that has nevertheless bagged a crow. Zeynabi, wise young woman that she was, stayed firmly out of it, offering their guest a bowl of the hot stew. "Tell us, what tales do you bring to warm this cold evening?"

Dovahkiin took the bowl in both paws, warming the pads before sipping hot broth. "You have of course encountered patrols of the civil war of the Nords," she said. "And the elves."

A ripple of floofed fur accompanied the word _elves_. Everyone met the Thalmor, sooner or later, and nobody enjoyed the experience.

"This one's tale is of the _other_ civil war that rages across this land," said the Dovahkiin, getting puzzled but attentive looks.

Zeynabi offered, "We are aware of no such war?" to the affirming nods of her caravan-mates.

But the Dovahkiin leaned forward, tugging a map out of one of her jerkins' many pockets. "Oh, but you are," she purred, amused. "You have only lacked a name to put to the evidence of your eyes." Unfolding the map, she pointed out little red-and-blue x's. "You have, this one is most certain, been to some of these places at least."

Dro'marash eyed the map and tapped one spot with an extended claw. "There was nothing but char here," he said. "For several lengths. This one thought perhaps dragons."

"It was not," said the Dovahkiin, with the calm certainty of one who knew definitively what dragon-char looked like. "It was a battle in the other civil war. Always away from cities, this war is fought. Often far from the roads. But this one tells you the truth, and will leave you this map; go to these sites, you will see."

"If it is not the Nords," Kharjo mused, "and it is not dragons, then who is fighting in this hidden war?"

"Mages," said the Dovahkiin simply. "The mages that fight with fire, and the mages that fight with ice. This one has been all over Skyrim, noble Kharjo, and tells you truly; they are always fighting, and always to the death."

The caravaneers looked between themselves, their ears half-tilted back in disbelief. A whole magical war? Really? "Would not someone notice?" asked Ahkari.

"This one has," said the Dovahkiin simply. "This one knew you would not believe her. That is why the map. When our business is concluded in the morning light, you may keep the map and examine the sites yourself. The bodies of the mages, or their bones, may yet be found. Char from fire spells. Pools of ice spells melted and refrozen in winter's chill. Over and over, this one has seen them - been caught between them, even. This is my first tale to you, for if you should see two mages battling, one with fire and one with ice, this one advises you to stay away. Both mages will turn on you, if they should see you.

Zeynabi's eyes glittered. "But what if they do not see us?" she asked. "Mages, they often carry such magical trinkets." Small, light, easily carried, easily concealed, immensely valuable. A caravaneer's motherlode.

For answer, the darker-furred Dovahkiin reached into her pack. She did indeed have the enchanted robes favored by mages. Along with scrolls of fire and ice spells, magical reagents, and even a few enchanted rings. "This one thought the same thing," she said, approvingly. 

Ahkari nodded to her group, granting permission for them to pick up the items, study them, pass them around. It wasn't exactly honor among thieves. Or even honor among Khajiit; there were enough of their people among the bandit clans to make either impractical. But the Dovahkiin was a sister of the sands, both Thieves' Guild and given Ri'saad's personal stamp of approval. There would be no swindling here.

Besides, she admitted to herself as she studied one of the firebolt scrolls, it was certainly an interesting and useful thing to be aware of. "Always away from the cities, you say?"

The Dovahkiin nodded. "Usually also away from the roads, but one can see a long way on the plains at night. The streaks of the firebolt spells can be seen, if one is looking for them." _As you will be, now._ "They will fight anything they see. But they fight each other most of all."

"So if we are silent, and quick..." mused Kharjo, turning a pretty enchanted silver ring in his claws. The faint sound of purring answered him. A fight where neither side wanted to notice them and both sides had much lighter and more valuable gear than the Stormcloak and Imperial patrols that were an everyday danger by now. Khajiit weren't warriors in the same sense the redguards were. A silent stalk and a sudden pounce sounded _just_ to their taste. That being seen might well mean getting speared with a giant icicle or getting their fur burned off in a firebolt...well, that just meant the prey was worthy of the hunt.

The Dovahkiin simply nodded. "This one favors waiting behind big rocks, or trees, until one is dead and the other wounded," she said. "The victor is drunk on his victory and light from blood loss, and often sees or hears nothing."

"All over Skyrim?" asked Zeynabi, disbelieving. "Truly?"

"And even to Solstheim," the Dovahkiin agreed. "This one does not know why. They will never stop fighting each other long enough for this one to ask. This one has even been to Winterhold, and spoken with J'zargo. The College mages, they seem to know nothing of this war. It is most strange. Profitable, but strange."

"Agreed," mused Kharjo. "And there is no clue in their belongings?"

"See for yourself," gestured the Dovahkiin. "Perhaps it is embroidered in their robes."

Well. Looking in enchanted silk and cotton robes for some kind of explanation at least passed the rest of the time until rest. And, as promised, when the Dovahkiin left (much lighter of pack, but wealthier) she left the map with some of the sites marked on it. Ahkari made sure _that_ was safely stowed, lest she lose some of her sturdy guards to a search.


	3. Should've Taken The Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this really happened. It honestly cracked me up at the time.

The winds blew cold and biting from the Sea of Ghosts. This part of Skyrim was always snowbound, hunters as likely to run into lethal ice wraiths as useful sabrecats. Most of a sabretooth was either useful or saleable. This was Ma'dran's route, far as possible from the warm sands of Elsweyr. And it was to his campfire, just past the bridge of Windhelm, that the Dragonborn came.

He knew enough not to be surprised. Word had, by now, gotten even to his caravan that the great Nord hero was in fact no Nord at all. And more of a heroine than a hero, if anyone wearing the leathers of the Thieves' Guild could be called a hero. Let her stay, Ri'saad had said. Offer food, a bed for the night. She will have much to say - and more pertinently, much to sell. The telling of new tales is good for the morale of the caravan.

"Bright moons," she said, her voice barely more audible than the wind over the ice. As theives often did, she waited in the shadows beyond the edge of the light of the campfire.

Waiting for a proper invitation. "Warm sands," Ma'dran returned, and gestured a welcome. "And warmer fire. Ri'saad has spoken of you."

She entered the camp then, light soundless steps as befit a thief. Murmurs of ritual welcome from Ma'jhad and Ra'zhinda were heard as the two came nearer.

The Dragonborn showed her fangs in a smile. "Business first, this one must divest herself of goods." From under her cloak she produced a rather large sack, out of which jutted a long staff. This, she presented to Ma'jhad, silent evidence of its lack of legal provenance.

Ma'jhad took the staff out first, studying it with interest. "Fully charged, very powerful staff of necromancy," he noted. "You do not wish to keep this?"

"Ah, therein lies the story, my friends," purred the Dragonborn, amused.

"Then this one will be quick, so as to hear it." And he was. Ma'jhad was an experienced fence, and quickly assessed the street value of the contents of the sack. Soon enough he had passed over a rather smaller bag, but one heavy with gold. "Do share the story."

The Dragonborn got comfortable by the fire, as Ra'zhinda filled a bowl of hot stew and passed it over. "You have perhaps heard of the bands of vampires on the roads?" she asked.

Ra'zhinda nodded; security of the caravan was her job. "It is said they often pose as Vigilants of Stendarr to lure travelers in. Or strike from ambush. We have taken care to be well-stocked in potions to treat the infection of their bite."

"Most wise," nodded the Dragonborn. "They are especially wary of this one, for reasons not relevant to the tale at hand. Suffice to say, this one is most adapted to their preferred tactics by now."

"This one was traveling across the open fields one day, and came upon what looked to be the aftermath of a skirmish of the human conflict," she went on, settling into her story. "Many bodies, strewn about as bodies often become in battle. The scavengers had not yet come to pick resellable armor off the corpses, so it must have been quite recent. But this one was not alone, at that site. One was there already. A human, Redguard this one believes. He had that staff which Ma'jhad now holds. And he was waving it in the air over the bodies, ordering them to rise."

Ma'jhad noted, "This staff, it is fully charged."

The Drabonborn smiled. "This one charged it for you." She raised a claw to her lips. "Shh."

"The Redguard was having no luck raising the bodies. This one approached, and began to converse with him. He claimed to be the grandson of a mighty necromancer, and that magic ran in his veins. He had found his grandfather's staff in the attic and raised minions that followed him, at least for a time. But when he went to the College in Winterhold, they turned him away, saying the magic was not in him, but in the staff."

Ma'dran flicked an ear. "He had wasted all of its charges?"

The Dragonborn nodded. "That is this one's guess as well. He insisted that the magic was in himself, not the staff, but when this one found him the staff had no charge and the dead did not move. So, this one offered to buy the staff from him, having the means to charge it. The poor fool refused."

"It _is_ a most beautiful and powerful staff," Ma'jhad noted. "But does your Guild not frown on murdering the mark?"

"It does," the Dragonborn agreed. "But therein lies the strangest part of the story. For this man, so certain of his necromantic powers, accidentally upset an ambush by vampires who were after this one. Having no magic, and an uncharged staff, sadly he quickly fell to their bites. But he gave this one time to successfully counterattack, so - after relieving him of valuable items, of course - this one provided a proper funeral for him."

Ra'zhinda laughed. "This incompetent would-be mage disturbed a squad of vampire assassins?"

"Truly, this one thinks he should have just sold this one the staff and run," shrugged the Dragonborn. "But he did swing the thing quite solidly. It is possible that he caused a few spells to misfire."

Ma'dran just shook his head. Many and insane were the strangenesses of mages.


End file.
